A Wizard's Tears Page 7

  Keldoran broke the silence in the carriage with a loud shriek. Pain flooded through him, as if his body had suddenly been placed inside a hot furnace. He convulsed and collapsed on the floor, sliding off his seat in agony.

  His eyes blurred as pandemonium erupted in the carriage. He felt a distant hand on his forehead: Relb. Then a voice, Yvanna’s, asking whether he was ok. A shadow hovered over him, and it was Corg, pulling him back up onto the seat in alarm.

  “Keldoran,” it was the juggler’s soothing, melodious tones. “Open your eyes. Focus. Look at me.”

  Keldoran’s eyes flicked open, but without sight. Slowly, the pain fled from his body, and as it did so his eyesight returned. “W-what, what happened?” he gasped, feeling numb and shaken. He stared wildly at the others, as if they could answer. Yvanna, Relb and Nagoth all stared back, concern and fear apparent in all their faces. Corg, however, looked him in the eye, equally worried, but with understanding.

  “What happened is something I have not seen for a long, long time.” He said quietly.

  There was a hush as all eyes turned to the juggler.

  “The land is calling to you, Keldoran,” said Corg. “Its heartbeat pumps the blood in your veins.”

  “I do not understand,” replied Keldoran. “What do you mean?”

  “Land magick,” answered the juggler. “You have an Earth elemental force within you. It detects when the land is threatened. You are bound to the energies of the soil, of the rock, and the trees.”

  Corg leaned forward then, eyes locking onto Keldoran’s fiercely. “You are already a mage, Keldoran: a naturally born mage at that!”

  Keldoran opened his mouth to respond to this crazed statement, but fire engulfed his stomach once more and he blacked out into unconsciousness.

  7. Into The Magick

  The land of Elrohen heaved and rumbled.

  Faeries flew up out of the grass in their droves,

  agitated by the movement of the earth beneath them. It

  shuddered, as though it was an upset stomach with

  indigestion. Cracks began to show in the mud and fields as

  the soil opened up to the bubbling energy underneath. The ground was restless after the unnatural touch of the sorcerer’s

  feet.

  The Slardinian hissed as the trees swayed and parted

  before them, seeming to have minds of their own. The

  sorcerer, unflinching at his effect on the land, walked boldly

  across it, charring and burning the dirt at his feet, leaving a

  trail of dead ash behind him.

  They came upon the road where Nagoth had surprised

  the mage and his party earlier. Without hesitation Lorkayn

  started walking along the road. Somehow, he knew the way

  he had to go. His visions were telling him. Seek the city of

  gold. Find the priestess.

  His bewitched companion followed without thought, seeming to pay little attention to the cracks that appeared and blasted their way through the road in wake of the sorcerer’s footsteps.

  Yvanna dabbed Keldoran’s sleeping face with a rag dipped in cold water.

  They had informed the mage of Keldoran’s pain, and he had stopped the carriage momentarily to inspect the unconscious young man. Nodding to Corg in agreement, he had mentioned the increased urgency of getting to Malana. With that, he had mounted his horse, and the powerful steed brought the carriage back to life.

  Yvanna had been asked to keep Keldoran’s face cold and free of burning fever. Apparently it would help him. So she rubbed his face gently, pouring cool water over him, as instructed, but being extremely careful not to touch him directly, lest she catch his strange ailment.

  “Do not worry,” Corg spoke to her, noting her gentle touch, as if she were stroking a poisoned scorpion. “It is not contagious. The land is affecting him.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?” The question came from Relb. He looked pale, obviously shaken by the morning’s events. It was clear he had not understood why Keldoran had fallen ill.

  “Let me try to explain,” said Corg. “Long ago, when the land of Elrohen was new, people claimed the three gods, the Endless as they were once called, forged this world. Each poured their own piece of magick into the soil: Morduk, the god of nature, poured his will into creating the lands, the seas, the animals, everything. Untaba, the god of survival, poured his will into creating the balance and interaction of the elements blasted into existence by Morduk. Then, Sla’hek, the god of spirits, bound both these wills together into one cohesive world: Elrohen.

  “The result is what we see today, a world rich in life and magick. The magick of these gods, though, never ebbed. Pockets of it could be found throughout the land. It is the power that gives the mages their spells. Certain words and objects, when uttered and present, tap into the magick of the gods.”

  “So,” pondered Relb, “that’s what a mage learns through his spell books? A way to harness this magick that already exists in the world?”

  Corg nodded. “Yes. However, some people born to this world have an innate, natural ability to harness the magick. They require no spell book.”

  Relb’s eyes were wide in wonder. “Keldoran?” The juggler nodded again. “Keldoran is one of these people. His body and soul is bonded to the very magicks of the land itself. So, naturally, when the land is scorched, or threatened, or destroyed, Keldoran’s body mimics the lands pain.”

  “Which is what is happening now,” murmured Yvanna, stunned by his realisation.

  “Yes,” answered Corg enthusiastically, glad he had the attention of all in the carriage. Even the accursed Norfel was rapt, listening to his every word.

  “So,” concluded the juggler, “it would seem the land is suffering some tragedy as we speak. Keldoran is very ill.” “The sorcerer!” Nagoth’s voice split the air thunderously. “The ground at his feet smoked and charred in ruin. He must be the cause of the land’s discomfort.” “If what you say is true,” said Corg, not looking into the Norfel’s eyes, “then this sorcerer must be alien to the land. The magick within him is conflicting with the magick of Elrohen.”

  The statement caressed the carriage with silence. Yvanna mopped away a fresh rivulet of sweat from Keldoran’s face. Asleep now, she regarded Keldoran’s chiselled features. He was handsome, she decided. His face looked at peace, despite the fever rife in his body. Slowly, carefully, she brushed back his hair with her hand. A small smile of compassion crept to her lips, but as soon as she felt the feeling she snatched her hand away. It was an odd feeling and she did not care for it at all. It reminded her of how she had felt when she had looked after her father. Frowning, she turned to Relb, offering him the cloth. “I think it’s your turn!” she announced. Relb nodded at her, glad to be of assistance, and to be actually doing something rather than sitting and worrying in silence. Yvanna swapped places with him in the carriage. She stared out of the window, her face a picture of concern as she dwelt on old memories.

  Keldoran stood at the top of a volcano, peering down into the chasm of molten red lava which belched and hissed as it churned and bubbled below him.

  He was dreaming – he had to be dreaming. He had no recollection of how he could possibly be here. Yet this dream felt so alive! He could feel the incredible heat searing his flesh. He could smell the foul reek of sulphur. He could taste the dry, hot ash that blew into his mouth.

  He could sense his excitement – his unparalleled exhilaration and adrenaline rush. His blood pumped with power; with magick. His whole life had led him to this moment. The magick flowed through him; was a part of him. The volcano below seethed with power, as did his entire being. He felt at one with this fiery mountain. He felt at home.

  His body urged him to leap from his precipice and join the fierce dance of lava. He would be one with the flow of the earth, the molten core of the land. Without a moment to consider his safety, or his certain death, Keldoran fell, his face grinning as the magic
k flowed through him, rushing to meet the boiling world.

  He hit the rushing sea of lava head first. His body sank into the flaming miasma of death, embracing it. His skin burned and dissolved. His muscles and ligaments oozed through cracks in his skeleton. Soon, as he descended further, only bone was left – this too started to crumble and turn to ash. His skull lingered his grin as it shattered into nothingness.

  All that remained was a soul, embedded in a glow of magick, and somehow, consciousness.

  Euphoria caressed his mind. The further he travelled, passing through lava and metamorphic stone, the heightened his pleasure became. His soul was dancing, seeking out the heat of the molten landscape and revelling in its power. Bobbing and weaving in the red ocean, the magick guided his soul to the very core of the planet – the very source of Elrohen.

  He felt the land’s pain, the soul of the world mingling with his, and others drawn to it just as he had done. He detected other auras of magick, other souls, and other beings of even greater magnitude. Then he was speeding away again, flowing on through the red ocean, heading upwards once more.

  In a surge, his soul erupted from the scorching abyss to soar back to the top of the volcano. Once there, the magick that was part of him flared as bright as the nearest star.

  Bone formed from the air, spinning inexorably in a macabre dance. Tendons and joints were added, then a thin covering of skin. With a silent scream, he bonded once more to his body, reborn, and fuelled with the energies that were the essence of stars.

  “He’s coming round!” said Relb excitedly. All eyes turned towards Keldoran as his eyelids fluttered open. Fresh beads of sweat lined his face. With a low moan, he struggled to sit up in the carriage. He felt as though he had been battered like a lump of metal between anvil and hammer. He smiled weakly at Relb.

  Corg sprang to his side. “Easy there, Keldoran, you’ve had quite a shock.” Keldoran gulped slowly. His throat was dry and hurting. “Is there any water?” he asked, his breath ragged.

  Corg nodded to Relb, who quickly lifted a cup of cold water and gave it to Keldoran, who sipped it slowly at first, testing his throat, then guzzled the whole cup. “I’m so…hot…” he groaned.

  “You have a fever. I’m sorry, but I think it’s going to continue for some time.” Corg eyed him up and down sympathetically.

  “Have I caught a disease or something?”

  “Uh...not exactly, no.” The normally loud juggler seemed very subdued.

  Keldoran suddenly remembered Corg’s last statement to him before he had passed out. “You said it had to do – with me being a mage?” His tone was incredulous.

  Corg sat down beside him, and told the tale of the land he had told the others. Keldoran listened, eyes growing wider with each revelation. “S-so,” he stammered, his mouth struggling to form words, “the land is in trouble?”

  The juggler motioned for him to look outside of the carriage.

  Keldoran looked. There was no mistaking what his eyes had told him earlier – the trees were swaying. It was as if a monstrous wind tore at them, yet he could not hear any sound of a gale. He heard small snapping sound, and watched in horror as the odd branch here and there split and fell on the road’s edge.

  “What is happening?” he breathed in awe, staring at the others in fright.

  “We think the strange mage the Norfel saw is doing this,” answered Corg. “He is not of this land. It is rejecting his presence.”

  “W-who is he?” asked Keldoran, saying aloud what they were all thinking. “Where has he come from?” The sound of the trees cracking outside was his only answer.

  Falling back into his seat, Keldoran closed his eyes. His head pounded. His mind scattered, tumbled thoughts and images came to him. So he was a mage of the land, naturally born? His mother had been a witch – perhaps she had been born with her magicks. Keldoran had assumed she had been taught her skills: those amazing spells of protection and healing she had done. Could they be a natural ability? Is that why the magick called to him, had urged him to take this trip? Had he finally uncovered the truth about himself?

  He knew none of the answers. Worse, he had succumbed to this strange fever that made him exhausted and burned his body.

  Burned.

  Keldoran’s eyes opened in shock as memories flowed back to him. A volcano – he remembered standing on top of a volcano. It had to have been a dream. He shuddered in fear, gazing at his sweaty skin, remembering strongly the feeling of when his skin and bone had disintegrated in lava. “Impossible,” he muttered to himself. “A dream, just a mad, frightening dream-“.

  A hand touched him on the shoulder. He looked up to see the juggler. “Rest, Keldoran,” he said. “I know this is a lot to take in. Just rest. Your answers are only a day away. We will reach Malana soon. Then the mages will take care of you.”

  Keldoran nodded dumbly. All he could think about was his dream. He stared at Corg, but inwardly looked beyond him. Then a name came to him, bubbling up to the forefront of his mind. He knew who he thought about, although he knew not how. He had touched another soul, in his dream. His magick had mingled with another at the core of the planet. “Vo’loth”.

  “What was that?” said Corg.

  “Vo’loth,” repeated Keldoran. “I had a strange dream. I encountered a spirit in the dream. Its name was Vo’loth.”

  “I have no memory of that name,” said Corg. “Rest, Keldoran. Maybe the mages in Malana will know of what you speak.”

  Keldoran needed no further prompting. He was asleep before his eyes had fully closed.

  Vergail stood atop the highest spire in the great cathedral, staring at the bustling city below. She could sense a gathering storm, one that would quell the calm sunshine of the day in spectacular fashion.

  What Suralubus had told her in the gardens gave her great concern. Now, herself steeped in Untaba’s raw magick, she could feel the unease in the ground. Tremors, Suralubus had said. The wizard had returned to the guild of magick, to gather his brethren for a ritual at the stone circle. The result would determine the source of the land’s discomfort. She would also be present to offer Untaba’s guidance.

  She hoped they would find the source, and remove it, before an earthquake shattered her beloved city. Vergail rolled up her robe sleeves, exposing her pale white arms to the morning’s sunlight, luxuriating in its warmth. Closing her eyes, she mumbled thanks to Untaba for providing her with the golden glow of the sun. With this power and heat from the heavens, all worries drained from her.

  Her eyes closed. Vergail’s mind wandered. The warm sun on her face made her smile in ecstasy – its powers imbuing her with strength and passion.

  It is the passion I seek.

  Vergail’s eyes snapped open in fright. She had heard a voice. Spinning round, she glanced behind her at the spire. No-one stood there. Had she imagined this voice? No, it had been too clear, too powerful in her mind. What sorcery was this?

  So much for the sun draining all worry from her. She felt suddenly chilled, and wrapped her arms about her, looking out at the city nervously.

  8. Spells in Stone

  Night descended on the continent of Emorthos. The three moons of Elrohen appeared in the night sky, all as bright as each other, giving the night its energising, mystical glow.

  Keldoran looked out of the carriage, enjoying the view of the moons. He remembered when he had stood at the bottom of his home in Demorbaln, his father’s farmland, and stared at the glow of the moons. He had always felt part of something vast and beautiful, whenever he had looked at them. Now, in light of the day’s events, he felt even more part of the cosmos. He was part of the land itself.

  He had woken a few hours ago, his fever subsiding. It was as if his body had moulded itself to embrace the fever as one of its organs – necessary for his own survival. There was much he did not understand about his magicks, he realised. Nobody else in the carriage could help him, either. He prayed that the high mages in Malana could. Still, for now, he no l
onger sweat, and he felt more himself. He was glad, for he would need all his strength when they reached the city.

  Apparently they were close. The mage had stopped the carriage for a moment to inspect his companions, in particular Keldoran. Satisfied, he had declared them an hour or so away from Malana. Now, as the minutes ticked by, Keldoran and the others looked impatiently out of the carriage, ready to shout as soon as they saw the lights of the city walls.

  In his haste to arrive at the city on this night, the mage had left the road, bypassing the village of Roth by heading through a mud track that joined the main road further up. This had been a bumpy, jolting ride for all. Yvanna had fumed and uttered loud profanities each time she had been thrown from her seat. Keldoran smiled at the memory – never had he imagined he would hear such cursing from a young woman’s lips.

  He glanced over at her. She stared out at the moonlight, her face pale, her eyes tired. Her hair tumbled in a mass of tangles everywhere, giving her a bedraggled appearance. Despite his fever and pain, Keldoran thought she had endured the trip to the city the worst.

  She noticed he was staring at her, and smiled at him weakly. Involuntarily, she attempted to brush back her hair, but it was all over the place. “I must look terrible,” she said to him, her voice soft and miserable.

  Keldoran leaned forward to whisper to her. “You would never look terrible,” he said honestly. To his eyes, she was a small, blonde woman, with an impish, almost child-like face. Her piercing blue eyes held cunning and mischievousness. To him, she was unlike anyone he had ever seen before. She was truly a wonder to behold.

  She blushed slightly at his compliment, and mumbled her gratitude. She could not meet his gaze. The silence in the carriage seemed as loud as a blown trumpet. She stared at her feet, shuffling them slightly. Seeming to acknowledge her discomfort, Keldoran turned away from her to look at the moons. It had been a tough day, he decided. He would not make it any worse.